It wasn't more than five minutes before the soldier returned from the cellar, but for Meg it seemed like an hour. He surveyed the group distrustfully as he motioned for the other soldier for the leave. If the soldier found the note, it could easily be misinterpreted as a warning to an insurgent. The truth was no less incriminating. Erik was still a wanted to man, but the Paris police had bigger problems at the present moment.

Another blast of gunfire drew the soldiers' attention outside. Meg willed her heart to resume its normal rhythm after they left. So far, the House of Clureoux had been lucky. No one had been maimed or arrested. The soldier hadn't found the note. She doubted that he'd ignore it if he had. Meg thought of Erik, and wondered if he'd found the note. Several times she'd thought of going down through the tunnels to try and find him. But even if she did eventually locate him, he didn't necessarily want to be found. She would be wasting her time looking for him.

It was not yet dawn, however, it would be impossible for anyone to try and sleep. Michelle followed Meg into the kitchen when Aunt Clair asked Meg to help Jacques serve everyone brandy. Jacques poured the amber liquid into glasses and Meg put them on a tray. The glasses rattled clinking against each other. Michelle took the tray from her shaking hands and offered to carry the tray if Meg would hand the drinks to the guest. After everyone had been served and sat in the parlor talking about the evenings drama, Meg silently went into the kitchen. She carefully opened the cellar door, holding a candle above her to cast more light into the blackness. She looked down on the top step, where the note had been left. It was gone.

"Are you looking for this, Mademoiselle?" Jacques said from behind her. She almost dropped the candle and just managed to stifle the scream that threatened to come forth from the depths of her lungs. She turned around pulling the cellar door closed behind her. Jacques held the paper she'd written the note on. Meg met his eyes with her own. They were not angry, as she'd expected. "Maybe you had better tell me what you've been up too." He said, not unkindly. She stared at him unsure of what to say. "If you do not want me to tell your Aunt that you have been stealing food and supplying it to the revolutionaries, tell me what it is that you have done." Meg stared at him, tears puddled in her eyes out of fear of what it would do to her mother if the truth were known. It would jeopardize their position at the boarding house. They may even be asked to leave. To deny stealing the food now would be useless. It would only raise more unpleasant questions. Meg remained silent, her eyes brimming with the unshed tears. "Mademoiselle, if you are smuggling food to the insurgents, I have to know." He voice softened.

"I cannot tell you, Monsieur, but please do not tell Aunt Clair. She and mother would be so upset. I cannot bear to see them suffer because of my transgressions." Her voice wobbled though she tried to stop it.

"Do not cry, child. I will not tell them. But please tell me that there's no one hiding in the cellar." He said seriously.

"There is no one in the cellar. But he–." Meg broke off. She'd said too much.

"He?" Jacques said inquisitively. Meg blushed in spite of herself and tuned away from his searching look. "Is this man someone you care for? Is he a revolutionary?" Something in Jacques voice betrayed that being a revolutionary wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe he privately supported the Paris Commune but had better sense than to let his views be known. Meg took a chance and nodded. "Do not worry, Meg. Maybe we can help each other." Jacques said. Meg listened as he told her about the plight of the working class. Meg was already vaguely aware of their political struggles. And although there was plenty that she didn't understand, because her life had been the sheltered existence her mother arranged for her, there seemed a great unbalance in the social structure of Paris. He told her that he too had been supplying the revolutionaries with meager amounts of food. If she was in support of the Paris Commune, he would keep her secret and she could help the cause of the starving proletariat. Meg didn't hesitate to agree.

"I will help you, but how will I be able to help?" She whispered.

"After the soldiers leave the area, you will take some lentils to an address that I will give you later. Javotté is the woman who lives there and she will cook it up for the soldiers and see that they get it. It will be better if I have do not have to make all the deliveries. I would not be easy to get a carriage to deliver it right now. Anyone seen making a grocery delivery in that neighborhood would be in danger. Everyone is hungry, but the food is for the soldiers. Your aunt will not notice as much if you are gone for two hours at a time, but hurry in case anyone should wonder where you are."

"Does it take two hours to make the trip?" Meg asked puzzled. Somehow she'd expected that it would be a shorter distance.

"Only an hour. But that is if you hurry and do not have take a detour because of trouble."

"You will have to tell me how to get there, because I still don't know Paris very well."

"That is why you will have to go before nightfall for the first time. I believe that if you leave very early in the morning, so you can be back before anyone else if up. It is better to go in the morning. After that you should leave in the dark and be back before dawn. I will show you where the food is hidden." He reached past her and turned the handle to the cellar door. The door opened and he pushed past her to go down the stairs. Meg followed.

Several burlap bags were stored in a corner behind an old wardrobe. Meg didn't count them but guessed there to be around ten twenty-five pound bags of lentils and as many of flour.

"There isn't much left anymore, but I must take it to three different places to be prepared. It would be a big help if you would do this."

"Where did it all come from?" Meg asked surprised.

"We have been planning this revolt for some time. Many of us saved our money to buy food for the soldiers, because we knew that the bourgeoisie would cut off the supply of food. I paid for the lentils myself, though they were delivered with your Aunt Claire's order. I did this a six months ago. Now it will keep the National Guard alive to fight. It was safer here. The soldiers would not raid a bourgeoisie house as quickly as a proletariat one." Jacques said, pleased with himself. Meg didn't mention that the store looked too small to keep an army alive, but he'd said that there were others doing the same thing. Maybe it would be enough to do something to help the cause.

"Let's get back to the parlor before someone misses us." Meg said quickly. It would not be good if someone missed them and went searching. Everyone else was still in the parlor finishing their brandy when Meg returned to the group. Michelle was the only one who seemed to notice that Meg had something on her mind besides the obvious drama of the soldier holding them at gunpoint while the house was searched. She questioned Meg about it. As much as she wanted to bring the younger girl into her confidences, she didn't dare risk it. The less Michelle knew, the better. It would only worry her unnecessarily, so Meg denied anything being amiss. Sometime before the crack of dawn everyone went back to bed, calmed by the brandy.

She had promised Jacques that she would deliver the lentils to Javotté, and she'd do it as much to support the men fighting for a better way of life as she would to keep her secret. Jacques wouldn't tell her Aunt about the stolen food, because he believed that she was aiding the cause of the proletariat. He'd put the lentils in a cloth bag, tied the top with twine, then placed the full bag into a canvas satchel. Meg crept out of the house as soon as it was light enough to see her way through the street. The soldiers were no longer haunting the street. They were occupied elsewhere for the moment. The directions that Jacques gave her were easy to follow and it didn't take too long to find the address. She knocked on the door. A small woman with graying hair straggling from beneath her dingy mop cap opened the door. Her mouth popped open and her gray eyes fairly bulged in surprise to see Meg.

"Javotté?" Meg said uncertainly.

"Y...yes. How can I help you, Mademoiselle?" She asked almost recovered from the shock.

"This is for you...from Jacques." Meg said, hoping that would be all the explanation needed.

"Is he sick?" Javotté asked with new concern.

"No, but it is difficult at times for him to get away. He asked me to come." The woman gazed at her suspiciously. "My name is Meg Giry. I wanted to help. But I have to hurry back before I am missed." She explained. Smiling apologetically, she handed the satchel to Javotté, who removed the bag of lentils and gave the satchel back to Meg.

It was still early dawn when Meg returned to the boarding house. Everyone was still asleep. She crept up the stairs in her stocking feet and silently went to her mother's door to listen for the sound of gentle snoring. Satisfied that her mother was still asleep, she crawled under the covers of her own soft bed. In a matter seconds, she was asleep.

Meg made a similar journey each morning before sunup for four days. The fighting had subsided drastically. The earth shaking blasts from the cannons no longer rattled the house while Meg slept. Instead, there was a mournful aura about the city. The newspaper reported twenty thousand dead in just only a week of fighting. Some revolutionaries were still holding out in isolated pockets throughout the city, while most had been arrested and were being detained in prison camps. The city was emerging from what was beginning to be called the bloodiest week in French history.

Erik surveyed the devastation in dismay. One of Paris' most beautiful and prestigious hotels was in complete ruin. Many once majestic, historical landmarks lay in crumbled masses. It was nothing less than insanity that inspired such destruction, Erik thought. After the shelling had stopped, he'd decided to see the damage for himself. The street was deserted now except for a lone figure emerging from a shabby townhouse, barely visible in the fading darkness. It was a curious figure, dressed in trousers like a man, but the manner of walking was more like a woman. Something was familiar in the way she carried herself, like a dancer. It was Margaret Giry. Though her blond hair was hidden under a dull brown cap, it could be no one else. He'd watched her hundreds of times in practice or in performance. Her movement was almost as familiar as Christine's. He thought of disappearing into the shadows as was his custom whenever someone approached, but this time was different. He wanted her to see him. As much as anything, he told himself, he wanted to know what she was doing out in the street in the wee hours in the morning.

"Mademoiselle." He greeted her as she approached within a few yards.

"Monsieur!" She responded immediately and somewhat surprised. It took her a few moments to recognize the man who addressed her. "Erik! What...are you...doing here?" She stammered. He wore the flesh colored mask and a wide brimmed hat, but gone were his formal cloak and coat. He wore a white shirt, dark trousers and hessian boots. His attire was much the same as her own.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but I should ask you the same thing. Young ladies who are caught sneaking home early in the morning are gossiped about terribly. Perhaps you do not care to share where you've been." His voice held a hint of accusation. It angered Meg that he would be so quick to assume the worst. It would seem that he'd done more than enough of that already.

"How can you be so quick to judge?" Meg said, not meeting his eyes, but focusing her attention on the top button of his vest. "It is your fault that I am here. So you can just keep your self-righteous position to yourself. I have taken the blame for what you did, so don't get all high and mighty–!" She would have continued, but he lifted her chin with a gloved index finger so that her eyes met his.

"What do you mean? I have done nothing to merit such accusation." His eyes were intense and speculative.

"There was food was missing from the pantry. Who else could have taken it? The door was locked and I saw how you picked the lock in the cellar. You had almost a direct access to the house from the underground passage. Who else would it have been?" Meg justified her assumption.

"I did not take anything from the pantry. I have many resources, but I do not steal from my friends." Erik said indignantly. "You have a thief in the house, because I did not take anything. In fact, I am offended that you think that I would." Meg couldn't be sure, but his voice may have held a trace of amusement. "But what does any of that have to do with you sneaking home in the early hours?"

"Jacques, our chef, noticed the missing food and I thought that you may have helped yourself." Meg said weakly. " I know now that it wasn't you, but at the time, I was trying to protect you. I would have stolen the food myself if you had needed it. I left a note for you under the cellar door, just in case you came back for more, but Jacques found the note and I couldn't explain it. I let him believe that I was smuggling food to someone else, and he thought that I was supporting the proletariat cause and should help him supply food for the soldiers. I have been taking lentils and flour to a place where it can be given to the National Guard."

"Where have you been taking it?"

"Just about a half hour walk from the house. I haven't been in too much danger."

"That's not entirely the point, but you must stop making the deliveries. I am sure that your mother always planned to find a suitable husband for you. Surely you do not want to spoil your chances by being caught sneaking home in the early morning." Erik admonished.

"What are you talking about?" Meg scoffed.

"Such carelessness. Even now, you are dressed in trousers, which is considered a wicked abomination! No decent man would have you if it were known that you habitually don men's apparel and give aid and comfort to the enemy."

"I don't know..."

"You really don't know." Erik said with some amazement. "Your mother protected you with a fierceness that made it obvious to anyone that you were different, not like the other girls, who were so free with their favors. She never left you or Christine alone for more than just a few seconds. It was widely known at the Paris Opera that you were off limits, because she wanted the two of you to have good marriages. Madame Giry would have killed with her bare hands to protect you."

"I know that she protected me. But she never said anything about...about..." Meg stammered.

"Is it possible that you could get to your age without knowing that you were being primed for a suitable marriage?" Erik looked at her with uncertainty

"That is ridiculous. People in the theater married all the time. Many had children. Mother was married." Meg argued.

"Everything is about social class. Surely you've noticed that theaters have doubled as brothels and actresses as harlots. You and Christine are the exceptions, because your mother saw to it. Go home quickly before you are seen. It wouldn't do for you to be seen talking to a man on the street. You should remember that." Erik said in a voice that implied he was cutting their conversation short.

"But I don't care what people think."

"You should. Don't do any more to further the cause of the working class. Their efforts are a waste of time and money and I don't want you to put yourself at risk. There's no need for it."

"Why do you care?" Meg brushed away a strand of hair from her eyes.

"I don't." He blinked. "Especially when you ignore sound advice. Goodbye, Mademoiselle." Erik said turning from her.

"When can I see you again?" Meg said to his back. He stopped and turned to face her.

"Have you heard nothing that I said?" He said spreading his arms expressively. Meg gathered her courage to speak. She may never again have the opportunity to say how she felt.

"Have you heard anything that I have said? We are friends. You said as much yourself. As friends, it would be nice to see each other once in a while." She contended.

"I was talking about Madame Giry. She and I are friends, albeit a strained relationship. A friendship, between you and I, would be a sham. In time, either we would become lovers or hate each other or both. I'm betting on both."

"Then you admit that you feel something for me." Meg said, trying not to show the joy that she felt, in spite of his cynicism.

"I would have to be dead otherwise. But where can it go? We cannot marry. There is not a clergyman in the country that would perform the service. If I were to make you my mistress, it would be less than you deserve." Erik said as though his logical explanation was final.

"But I would accept." Meg said simply.

"What! I have not made the proposition!" Erik was taken aback. "This is hardly the time and place to discuss such things!" Looking both ways, he pulled her away from the street into a narrow back alley, as though it was somehow better than the deserted street. His body shielded hers, casting her in shadow. The stars were beginning fade in the sky and a grayish light announced daybreak.

"When did you become a subscriber of propriety?" Meg teased, knowing that she had caught him off guard.

"When did you become an aspiring tart?" He shot back. She raised her hand to strike him. "Don't try it! I've already warned you once!" For a split second, Meg thought that she had pushed him too far. His eyes flashed darkly, frightening her, though she would not admit it. Her gaze held his, unwavering.

When he lowered his lips to meet hers, it was as a storm tossed current finding its cycle in a whirling vortex. Instinctively, she allowed him the pleasure of her mouth. His lips moved greedily over hers. Pulling her closer, he kissed her temple, her eyelids. He let her cap fall to the ground as he stroked her hair. She felt the rhythmic meter of his heart or perhaps it was her own that pulsed rapidly.

Erik was breathing heavily and his voice was oddly harsh when he spoke. "Why do you insist on pushing the limits? Do they tutor girls in school on how to drive men beyond the edge of reason?"

"No. I think it's part of a bigger plot for men to blame women for their own animal instinct." Meg answered and was instantly sorry. She shouldn't have baited him, as she did, but he'd implied too many times that she was careless with her favors.

"So you did not enjoy it, as I did." Indignant with her cool reply, he kissed her again. This time he brushed her lips softly, his breath mingling with hers, warming her. Slowly, his hand caressed the small of her back, pressing her closer to him. His tongue moistened her lips, sliding into her mouth to savor the delights within. At some point, Meg began kissing him back, but Erik maintained control over the kiss, pulling back, when she became too eager, only to return, deepening the kiss until she fairly gasped with pleasure.

It was Erik that ended the kiss, by releasing her abruptly. Meg stared at him in confusion. His eyes regarded her, bright with victory and something else that Meg lacked the experience to interpret. She trembled from the shock of the desire he had stirred in her, but he had simply used her to prove his point.

Shame and anger washed through her in a violent tide. Tears pricked her eyes and she fought the overflow that threatened to spill down her cheek. She'd been foolish to think that he was different than other men who so casually used women for their own purposes. She didn't blame anyone but herself. She had deliberately taunted him, wanting him to succumb to her feminine appeal. But she hadn't realized that his vulnerability was entirely in her imagination.

"You used me!" Meg accused, angrily.

"Did you think I wouldn't? It is only your good luck...or misfortune that seedy back alleys are my style! Go home before you are ruined for another man!" Erik ordered caustically. Meg didn't need another warning. She almost ran the entire distance home.

Erik bent to retrieve her cap, then watched her go. It was for the best, after all. If he had to walk off some sexual frustration, it wouldn't be the first time or even the last. He often ran for the purpose of exercise in the early hours and this morning he'd already covered several miles. The sun was just about to make an appearance and he didn't have any choice but to hurry. His lungs needed the fresh air, if the air in Paris could be called fresh. The smell of the sewers was ever present and he'd never quite gotten used to it. He started off in a brisk walk but after a short distance, he began to run.

It proved more difficult to erase the memory of his little tryst with Meg than he anticipated. She was still first and foremost in his thoughts when he returned to his room and tried to get some sleep. He'd acquired one of the bad habits of theater people while living in the Paris Opera, of sleeping during the morning and living his life in the late afternoon and evening. There was still a certain irony in encountering a woman in his life with the same disrupted schedule. He'd just about convinced himself that he could give up the dream of having someone love him. It wouldn't be wise to not get his hopes up again. The memory of Christine's rejection remained a gaping wound in his heart. Though for the life of him, he could not hate her. Nor could he simply transfer the emotion to another. What he felt for Meg was surely not the same. Was it? It would have been easy enough to enjoy an affair with her, but she deserved more. If anything he felt more protective of Meg. He'd thought of her as Christine's sister and off limits to himself. Madame Giry had made it known that she expected Meg to make a suitable marriage. Meg may missed the message her mother sent to everyone else, but he did not. Many of the actor and actresses at the opera had felt similarly protective and she had been the little darling of the opera since she was a little girl.

He should be ashamed of what he did to her, awakening her passion, when he should have sent her home with an appropriate scolding for her early morning adventure. He'd tried that though and it had just brought out a boldness in her that quite honestly surprised him. The way she had responded to him thrilled him even in retrospect. He would not have thought that she would act as she did. In fact, he expected her to be repulsed. His demonstration was meant to scare her. He thought back on the first time she'd kissed him in the marquess's garden. He believed that she did so in pity. Christine had kissed him out of pity and until this morning, it had been all he'd known. There had been no pity when Meg held on to him for support when her knees went weak.

In spite of his restless condition, he managed a few hours of sleep before Garrick arrived just after noon. They breakfasted on dried fruit, sausage and tea. Erik glanced through the morning paper, then handed it to Garrik.

"Read this," he said pointing to a passage. Garrick began to sound out the first words, haltingly. When he stumbled over the words Erik prompted him with the correct phonetic pronunciation. He chanted rules governing silent letters and letter combinations and had Garrick repeat them. The boy was making remarkable progress. In just over a week, he'd mastered the primary alphabet and begun to apply his newly acquired knowledge to existing print. After Garrick stumbled through several passages, Erik gave him pen and paper to write the daily lesson, dictating the simple sentences he was to write. He also outlined a mathematics lesson for him. The boy had a natural knack for numbers and learned quickly the strategies for solving math problems. Erik surprised himself by the enjoyment he derived from teaching the boy. He was able to witness a life altering transformation in the young man. Education would eventually be the determinant in what kind of life he would have. Erik liked tipping the scale in the boy's favor.

Garrick had picked up the post addressed to Erik Reeves Ian Kristof. The name was an acronym in reverse for Erik's only title and a tribute to his deprivation of valid options. The return address of a realtor's firm caught his attention. He'd been expecting a reply for weeks. It was an answer to his request for a list of country estates for sale.

There were several listed, as he'd expected, that interested him. One in particular caught his notice. The Chateau de Bagen, located in the Midi-Pyrenees region, was grossly under priced which indicated that it was in a sorry state. He was vaguely aware of the old structure, built roughly a hundred and fifty years earlier. Even in some disrepair the framework would still be of exceptional quality. He'd never been through the house, but his mother had taken him through Sauveterre de comminges when he had been about nine to visit her parents. He didn't remember much about his grandparents or their home but the countryside was breathtaking. He remembered the handsome old Chateau de Bagen being set away from the main road and horses grazing in lush meadows. His mother had called the house by name and he'd never forgotten it. He knew that the ageing composer, who had lived there had died just five or six years ago. William Vincent Wallace had been a competent musician but a poor business man, selling his finest work, Lurline, a lovely opera, for only a pound. His less successful opera, The Amber Witch was musically adequate, but the storyline was based on a true events surrounding the chilling witch trial of Mary Schwiedler. People did not attend the opera to be educated on social injustices, so even a relatively good opera did not have the box office success it deserved. If Erik were to find fault with the man's compositions it would have been in the instrumental aspects of his style because the vocal lines and harmonies were exceptional.

Erik felt a pang of regret for the man. Wallace must have died penniless for his house was being sold for barely more than taxes. Erik would buy the old composer's home. It was only fitting that such a grand old house should fall into the hands of someone who would appreciate it.

Erik drafted a letter to the real estate agent and gave it to Garrick to post. The boy left, saying that he would return shortly.

Erik went to work on a new design. It was a project that he'd been anticipating for a long time. Paris was known for its unique style of buildings that occupied an entire block with a center courtyard. They had a certain sterile quality, but they also had a necessary practicality. He wanted to devise a plan that would give the building a unique personality without sacrificing structural integrity. He laid out a basic floor plan for an apartment with some affordable luxuries such as wider doorways, larger windows, gas heating and lighting and spacious parlors. Plumbing for hot and cold running water and new water-flush toilets were included in the layout.

It was a gamble to include such modern conveniences. Few contractors knew how to install the new toilets correctly with the necessary venting and such to get them to work properly.

Erik was so involved with his work, he didn't notice the time passing. A commotion beyond his door startled him. It sounded like a dog barking and someone running. Now the ruckus was right outside his door. He hesitated only briefly before reaching for his knife and opening the door. He found Garrick down on the ground fighting off a huge dog that had sunk its teeth into his shoulder. Erik didn't waste another second in sliding the knife between the two of them and cutting the dog's throat. The dog wore a tag identifying it as a police dog, trained to kill. Garrick lay still, covered with blood oozing from more wounds than Erik had time to count and he wondered, in chilling dismay, if he'd been too late.